Eyes of the Beholder
by Carcaohtar
Summary: SEQUEL TO SHOEMAKER'S SON. Milla has never seen beyond Sasha's glasses. Frustrated with his cold and mysterious demeanor, she embarks on a mission to uncover his past despite warnings that she may not like what she finds.
1. Advice from Ford

(A/N: Yes, it's the not-so-long-awaited sequel to "The Shoemaker's Son." Although I tried to give some background in order to make this story relatively independent of the previous one, it is HIGHLY recommended you read Shoemaker's Son first, since the vast majority of the set-up for this one occurs in the final chapters of SS. As usual, the first chapter is probably the worst; this is still in a rough draft, so be gentle. REVIEW, REVIEW, REVIEW, and maybe I'll send you a pie.)

* * *

**The Eyes of the Beholder**

-Chapter 1-**  
**

Strange scenes were not uncommon in Whispering Rock Summer Camp, although this one certainly would have raised a few eyebrows.

The first strange thing about it was that it featured a tall, beautiful woman whose short, tight-fitting dress didn't belong in a summer camp. Her heavy Brazilian accent, combined with voluptuous hair past her waist and carefully applied mascara, made her a perfect applicant for a beauty contest—but definitely not a summer camp.

The other strange thing is that she was talking to a very old man. His nose was crooked, his eyes unfocused and one of them bulging. Nearly bald, a ring of static white hair formed a halo around his head. Dressed in overalls and pink bunny slippers, he was the last person in the world you'd expected the woman to be talking to.

Stranger still, they weren't talking over dinner. They were talking over a toilet, which the old man was trying ferociously to unclog.

Their names were Milla Vodello and Ford Cruller, and they were both Psychonauts—secret psychic agents—and this was probably the strangest thing of all.

"I know I shouldn't have been prying," Milla fretted, wringing her hands and delicately hopping from side to side on her high-heeled boots, "but you know how he gets. I only wanted to find out why. I'd never been in his head before, he's always so closed, and I only wanted to help."

"How many times have I told you?" asked Ford, emphasizing each word with a plunge. "He's like he is for a reason and you need to leave the boy alone!"

"But darling. I think he's _insane._"

"He's not insane. He's German," said Ford, jiggling the handle on the toilet experimentally. "Watch it, it's going to overflow."

Milla levitated a few feet above the ground, which was quickly submerged in water. She crossed her arms, concern painted all over her face.

"You don't understand. He's been sick forever, and I was really worried, so I might have accidentally protected into his mind—"

"Since when was astral projection accidental?"

"Ford, his mind is _empty._ I mean, completely empty. It's not like anything I've ever seen before. Except…" Milla hesitated. Ford, unconcerned, was up to his elbows in the toilet. "…except his mind is filled with shoes," she said in a rush. "_Mental_ shoes."

"So he's got a few figments in his imagination. No reason to accuse his noggin of being fried," said Ford. "Milla, I thought you knew better. You've been partners with Sasha for years. You know he's not crazy. Now me, _I'm_ crazy. But Sasha? Naw. How can I explain this? Ehh… he's… like a toilet."

Milla stared at Ford, too stunned even to ask him not to compare her partner (and best friend) to a toilet.

"The more you force him, the less he'll want to cooperate," said Ford, brandishing the toilet plunger for emphasis.

"You don't understand, dearheart. His mind isn't normal. No memories. No personality. Just… shoes. Even if they were figments, if he has nothing _but_ figments, then he must be living in some kind of kooky shoe fantasy all the time."

"So maybe he's got a fetish," said Ford simply, leaning all his weight on the plunger. "Eh, what can you do? I told you, he's German."

"That is not funny. He needs help."

"Help, Schmelp. He ain't crazy, Milla. Give him his room, and stop prying. Like I said, he's like a toilet. If you try to confront him, he'll just get mad and spew crap at you."

"Stop saying he's like a toilet!"

"And you better not jiggle his handle, either, because he'll only—"

"You're hopeless!" cried Milla, throwing up her hands and storming out. Which was just as well, because a moment later, the plumbing exploded in a violent eruption of stagnant water.


	2. If It Fits, Wear It

(Disclaimer: OMG, there's swearing in this chapter. Not a lot, but the "f" word is used, so if you don't already know what the "f" word is, maybe you should leave now and go back to watching Teletubbies.)

* * *

-Chapter 2-

Milla Vodello and Sasha Nein were the original dynamic duo. She was happy, social, emotional, caring, and bubbly. He was gloomy, introverted, logical, sarcastic, and very serious. She was outgoing and approachable. He was quiet and yet somehow threatening. Together they were the best agents in the world, and somehow, they had managed to reconcile their differences and become best friends—only friends. Milla loved him, and she knew, deep down, he loved her back. After all, Sasha hated germs, sunshine, and children, and he probably never would have agreed to come work at Whispering Rock if he didn't care about her.

He had set up a lab underground in the first year, and every summer since then, he would hole himself up there, usually working himself to exhaustion. His current pet project was the Brain Tumbler—a machine with which any psychic could, potentially, connect themselves to any other mind. It made projection easy. So easy, sometimes the subject didn't even know their brain was being picked at.

Milla had made the mistake of picking at Sasha's. He had always been frustratingly closed up. She had known him fifteen years, and she still didn't know anything at all about his home, his family, his life. Attempts to do so usually resulted in an abrupt change of topic. The Brain Tumbler had just been too tempting. And so she'd decided to take a quick peek—one which threw her entire understanding of Sasha completely askew.

Milla had astrally projected herself into 1,353 minds during her career as a Psychonaut. She had never seen one as… empty… as Sasha's. Empty and gray. It was a giant, condensed cube floating in complete and utter emptiness—no explanation for his introversion or his unwillingness to give a relationship a try. (Milla had been struggling for years to jump-start a relationship, but Sasha only met her with cold, platonic responses.)

With a sigh, Milla realized she was going to have to confront him face-to-face.

And so, for the second time that week, she found herself trudging across Whispering Rock, heels getting muddier with each step. She hadn't talked to Sasha yet. How could she? How could she explain she'd invaded his privacy? Sasha was generally a level-headed person, but when pushed, he certainly had a temper—and nothing bothered him more than people's attempts to poke around in his private life.

The Geodesic Psycoisolation Chambers were a rusted white elephant of a monument to the days when the Psychonauts sanctioned psychic isolation as punishment. A lot of cadets had gone insane and the Chambers were no longer used—except the very center one, which Sasha had made the entrance to his lab.

Milla ducked inside it and flipped open the trap door, thinking about the irony of Sasha isolating himself under these gloomy, outdated ruins.

"Darling?" she called out.

"Agent Vodello," replied a deep, dull voice.

Milla sighed. Fifteen years and still he couldn't say her first name without reminding.

She navigated her way down the stairs, stepping over the piles of boxes, books, and papers Sasha seemed to have left everywhere. Sasha himself was standing over an electrical board, carefully waving a magnet over it via telekinesis.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm magnetizing this, obviously."

"Why—" began Milla. Then she stopped. Sometimes, with Sasha, it was best not to ask. "So… sweetheart…" she said, clearing her throat. Her mind was already drifting, her anxiety setting in. What if he was insane after all? What if he was really devoid of all emotion and nothing more than a soulless shell of a person?

"Why are you looking at my shoes?" asked Sasha.

Milla jumped guiltily. "Oh. They're… nice. I was just noticing how nice they are."

"I've been wearing these shoes all summer."

Milla cleared her throat. Maybe Ford was right. Maybe Sasha just had a fetish. "Do you like mine?" she asked.

"They're okay."

"You're not even looking," insisted Milla, nudging Sasha's leg with her toe.

"Please cease kicking me, Agent Vodello."

"Would you rather talk about yours?"

Sasha paused, then turned slowly, staring at her. Milla stared back. She had never seen beyond those sunglasses. Fifteen years, and she didn't know what color his eyes were.

"Did you come all the way down here to talk to me about shoes?" he asked coldly.

"No," said Milla meekly.

"Because, contrary to what you may have heard, I detest shoes."

"Okay," said Milla meekly.

"I _loathe_ shoes. Why you believe I would want to waste my time talking about shoes is beyond me."

"Sorry," said Milla meekly.

"Shoes," muttered Sasha under his breath, shaking his head. "Absolutely disgusting." He trailed off, mumbling. "Shoes… ach du liebe… fucking things…"

"_Sasha_!" said Milla, shocked. "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

A heavy silence settled over the lab. Faintly, Milla could hear a dripping noise, a lonesome reminder that they were deep beneath the earth. Sasha didn't move. The magnet which had been drifting back and forth had stopped; it floated idly in the air, Sasha's hand frozen over it.

"Sasha?" asked Milla after a moment, acutely aware of her voice echoing.

Sasha twitched suddenly. "I—I apologize, Agent Vodello. If you could leave me to my work, please…" he mumbled, still sounding very far away.

Milla obediently edged away, well aware that Sasha didn't intend to work at all, and that it was more than likely he was simply stand there for a long time, staring off into space and thinking thoughts she could never hope to comprehend.


	3. Thaddeus and the Archive

(A/N: Voila, the next chapter. Pretty simple, I know. You probably won't be impressed by it, but trust me, I'm setting this up for a huge revelation at the end. I'm not feeling terribly motivated, since out of 150+ hits, I've gotten only six reviews. Where the hell are you people? Come ON. I need feedback!) (By the way, the next chapter is the best so far... it has Ford, and squirrels. For the love of God, review so that I can post it!)

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-Chapter Three-

"…and then he just went blank, and I left," concluded Milla. She was sitting on the edge of a picnic table, swinging her legs and chewing a piece of bubblegum. Ford was attempting to empty a trash can, which was over-filled and putting up an epic battle.

"I'm telling you, you had better knock that out right now," wheezed Ford, wrestling with the garbage bag. "There's a _reason_ Sasha doesn't talk about himself. Let sleeping dogs lie."

"No," said Milla stubbornly. "His mind isn't… normal."

"Neither's mine. Don't see you bothering _me_ in _my_ lab."

"You don't have a lab, Ford," Milla reminded him, feeling exasperated.

"Well, I have a big cave filled with monitors. Doesn't that—"

"No, darling, spying on the campers to find out who leaves gum under the tables doesn't count as having a lab." She pulled her string of gum out.

"You better put that in the trash when you're done," said Ford threateningly.

Milla ignored him. "I don't understand why he does that thing where he just… goes into one of his little moods. I'll say something and he'll shut down."

"Miss Vodello, I'm telling you, leave the boy alone. He's got his reasons for being the way he is and he's got his reasons for not telling you why. Just trust me." With a mighty tug, the garbage beg left the can and burst, getting trash all over the ground. Ford growled. Milla levitated the waste, tucked it back in the bag, and tied the bag with a flick of her hand.

"Can't you give me a teeny, tiny little hint?" she pleaded. "I would feel so much better, kitten. You have no idea how much I worry about him."

"Ehh… fine. Go to the past. The really distant past. Two thousand four-hundred thirty-five years past."

"The past," repeated Milla, hopping off the table. "Good enough. Thanks!"

She scurried off. Ford watched her go, shaking his head and muttering "kitten?" under his breath before hoisting the garbage and trudging across camp to throw it out.

* * *

"Pleeeeeeeease can I see the archive?" pleaded Milla.

"No," said the librarian sullenly. His name was Thaddeus Livingston the Third. A skinny, gawky man with a scraggly goatee and large glasses, he was more than a bit annoyed that Milla had decided to bother him. The Psychonauts library was at the very heart of their Headquarters, and didn't have any windows at all. It was a glum and blah place, and Thaddeus couldn't help but resent Milla for bringing her cheerfulness into his gloom. He stared at Milla coldly from his tilted-back chair, an open copy of "True Psychic Tales" still in his lap.

"Why not?" whined Milla.

"Because the archive is top secret."

"But I only want to see the Nein files," begged Milla. She slid behind Thaddeus's chair and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing their cheeks together. "I'm Milla Vodello, his partner. Certainly I'm entitled to just an itty bitty peek? It can be our little secret," she purred, playing with a strand of his hair.

"Okay, okay, okay!" he snapped, nearly falling out of his chair. "But just a peek!"

Milla grinned and practically skipped after Thaddeus as he led her through the rows of dusty, shelved books to the back room. Grumbling, he unlocked the steel door to the archive. Milla stopped in the doorway. She'd actually never been here. It was a huge room, so huge she couldn't see the end of it. The floor was concrete, and the ceiling was low, and it was packed with narrow rows of metal filing cabinets. No wonder poor Thaddeus was so sad. She made a mental note to send him a bunch of daffodils later.

"Nein," mumbled Thaddeus, stalking past the rows. "Let's see… N… Neidman… Neil… Neil with two Ls… Neil with three Ls… ah, here we go. Nein." He crouched, unlocking the drawer. It was second from the bottom. Milla crouched as well, leaning over eagerly as Thaddeus pulled out the drawer. Here was every bit of documentation the agency had on Sasha—including background information. Her hair fell into the middle of the file. She decided it was a sign and pulled out the folder.

_September 2004: Agent Nein has been dispatched to Peru to investigate paranormal claims involving a pyromaniac and a very disgruntled alpaca._

Milla chuckled. She remembered that case, all right. Sasha had carried her through two miles of jungle after she'd strained her ankle.

She put the folder back and pulled out an older one. Its white had faded to a dull yellow, and the Psychonauts emblem was peeling off its front.

_May 1996: Agent Nein has returned from his case in Australia. Reports have been confirmed and threat neutralized. Agent Nein requests "not going anywhere with kangaroos again, ever."_

Milla giggled. She remembered that case, too. Still too recent. Ford had told her to go really far back. Before she even knew Sasha.

She stuffed the folder back and pulled out an even older one. The emblem was nearly illegible, and the folder itself was dog-eared and crumbling.

_July 1991: Cadet Nein has been assigned partnership with Milla Vodello on the recommendation of Agent Cruller._

"Ford recommended us?" asked Milla outloud.

"Don't act so shocked. Everyone knows you two are perfect for each other," said Thaddeus sulkily, watching her with crouched arms.

"Why, thank you, baby doll," said Milla perkily, pulling out another folder.

_February 1990: Cadet Nein is displaying phenomenal progress in all areas of training, particularly marksmanship and offensive tactics. Advanced training with Agent Cruller recommended._

Milla pulled out the second-to-last folder.

_December 1989: Subject remains hospitalized and unresponsive. Nonetheless, Agent Cruller believes he has potential. _

She blinked. Hospitalized?

She pulled out the very last folder.

_December 1989: Sasha Nein, suspected psychic. Age: 19. Relations: one living. Found in New York. Hospitalized for severe blood loss. Unresponsive. Under observation._

She turned the page over. That was it?

"That was it?" she asked, confused.

"Huh?" asked Thaddeus, who was cleaning out his nails.

"This file doesn't say anything at all. It doesn't say how the agency found him or why he was in the hospital or… anything."

Thaddeus yanked the paper from Milla's hand and read it. "Yeah, that _is_ weird," he agreed. "But I guess they figure the only people who will ever read this already know. Only three people have clearance anyway."

"Who are they?" demanded Milla.

"How should I know? I'm just a librarian," snapped Thaddeus grouchily.

"A really sweet, sexy librarian," purred Milla, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Ford Cruller, Truman Zanotto, and Sasha Nein," he said immediately.

"_Truman_!" cried Milla, snapping her fingers. "Thank you, lovey!" She kissed him on the cheek and ran out of the archive, leaving Sasha's files wide open and rather unorganized. Thaddeus rubbed his cheek awkwardly, his mouth twitching in what was almost a smile.


End file.
